


To Do Or Die

by girlintheglen



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E.
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-14
Updated: 2013-10-14
Packaged: 2017-12-29 08:45:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1003368
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/girlintheglen/pseuds/girlintheglen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Poetry and justice, THRUSH and UNCLE... all in a day's work.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Do Or Die

  
  
There was no time left.  The man holding the knife at Napoleon’s throat intended to kill him, and Illya was just as determined to take out Nigel Lawson before it could happen.  
  
“You won’t dare kill me, Kuryakin.  I hold the key to locating that young woman you all think so highly of.  I’ll tell you where she is, and in time to save her from certain death, I might add.’ The audacious man who was speaking grinned with an irritating calmness that made Illya’s trigger finger press a little more than it should.  
  
“Of course, I insist on a life for a life.  Mr. Solo here will do nicely in exchange for the princess.”  Napoleon was calm considering how eager Lawson was to kill him.  He supposed… no, he knew the reason was Solo’s part in destroying the satrapy that had been Lawson’s crowning achievement.  The only thing not accomplished in that raid was the retrieval of the young royal being held for ransom by the THRUSH chief.  
  
“Illya, the princess is our only concern here.  We’ve had a good run, tovarisch, so let’s just make sure we end it on a positive note, okay.”  
  
Illya didn’t move from his stance, kept the shotgun steady as he listened to his partner’s little speech.  Napoleon was trying to tell him something, he just had to decipher everything correctly and proceed with caution.  Napoleon didn’t want to die, and neither of them were going to give in to the vicious Lawson.  Only one man would die today, and it wasn’t going to be Napoleon Solo.  
  
“Where is the girl, Lawson.  You’ll never get out of here alive if you kill my partner, and I think you know that.”  Lawson feigned surprise at the words spoken by Kuryakin.  
  
“Tsk, tsk tsk… Playing the tough guy, are we?”  Lawson angled the knife just enough to draw blood; he knew what he was doing and Illya dared not provoke him into something sudden.  
  
“No, not tough.  But I do intend to have Princess Ariana, and not at the cost of my friend’s life.  I do not make friends easily, and he is all I have.  Perhaps in a year or two I may let you kill him, but not today.”  Napoleon’s eyebrows shot up at that, aware of the dark humor but nonplussed just the same.  
  
“Gee, thanks partner.  Let me know when my expiration comes up, will ya?”  Illya still remained unmoved, his glare into the equally determined eyes of Nigel Lawson was unhindered by the conversation.  
  
“I believe that Mr. Kuryakin means to kill me, Napoleon.  I must say, that is a disturbing development, especially with you not knowing where to find the princess.  Her life is in imminent danger, did I mention that?”  Napoleon would have liked to stretch his neck and relieve the tension but dared not move; he could feel the sharp edge of the knife blade.  
  
Illya knew that Napoleon’s survival would depend on communication between them, but right now he was unsure what to do.  It was a stand-off, a knife vs. the shotgun.  The princess or Napoleon?  
  
“I will ask you once again, and you will tell me Lawson: Where is the girl?”  Illya’s tone was cold and hard edged, his glower in full force.  Lawson knew the Russian was considered ruthless by many, and had no doubt that he would indeed pull the trigger were it not for the presence of Solo and the threat to his life.  No way would Kuryakin risk Solo being killed; that pleasure belonged to Lawson, or so he believed.  
  
“Illya, my friend… just remember Tennyson.”  The Russian quickly thought back to the poem they had so often quoted as one or the other of them verbalized the seeming futility of a mission.  
  


  
_"Forward, the Light Brigade!"_   
_Was there a man dismay'd?_   
_Not tho' the soldier knew_   
_Someone had blunder'd:_   
_Their's not to make reply,_   
_Their's not to reason why,_   
_Their's but to do and die:_   
_Into the valley of Death_   
_Rode the six hundred_   


So, who was the blunderer now?  Lawson?  What was the weakness in this current scenario?  
  
The Russians had gained the victory at the battle referred to in The Charge of the Light Brigade, but Illya didn’t feel the inspiration of that poem just now, in this situation.  Lawson held the edge, literally, with two lives at stake.  Illya could have killed the man, but his partner was in the way of a perfect shot, especially with a shotgun.  The spray of metal would catch him as well.  And where was the girl?  Illya was thinking, a twitch in his jaw the only indication to his friend that there was some doubt as to the outcome.  
  
Nigel Lawson knew a little something about Tennyson, but his mind was too preoccupied with his own gloating in the current scenario.  His satrapy was gone, but here he was in his beautiful home with two UNCLE agents in tow, one of them at his mercy.  The other, that pesky Russian, would meet the same fate as Solo in the end, the ransom would be paid and the princess… alas, he needed to make an example out of her and this entire episode of events.  Lawson had not been treated well by any of the participants, and payment would be demanded of them all.  
  
“I grow weary of this…’ Lawson raised his eyes in a challenging way towards Kuryakin, his wrist poised at an angle to permanently disengage Napoleon Solo from the world around him.  In that instant Illya yelled out “Charge!”, startling Lawson and causing Napoleon to head butt the man.  The knife fell from the hand of the staggering villain, his entire plan a shambles and his head in agony from the impact.  
  
Illya cocked the rifle as Napoleon manipulated Lawson onto his knees, the knife now at his throat in the hands of the newly liberated agent.  
  
“Go ahead, pull the trigger.  I won’t tell you where she is!”  Lawson was red-faced and nearly delirious with rage over the turn of events.  Illya moved close enough to press the end of the shotgun into Lawson’s chest; he thought he felt the man’s heartbeat reverberate through the barrel of the gun.  
  
“I may just do that, Lawson, but first  _you will tell me_  where Princess Ariana is being held.”  Illya pulled the trigger back slightly and waited while Napoleon kept the blade poised against Lawson’s neck.  Between the cold glare in the Russian’s eyes and the dangerous sound of his voice, Lawson decided it might be best to not tempt fate or UNCLE agents, especially after making them testy.  
  
“Very well.  But this doesn’t mean that you have won anything.  I have more in store for the world than this little gambit.’ There it was again, that smug smile.  
  
“He annoys me, Napoleon.  Please take care of him, we will simply write off this mission…’ Now it was Illya looking smug.  Lawson didn’t think it likely that they would simply kill him, but then he looked at the blond agent and tried to gauge the level of mercy he might find there, and deciding there was none whatsoever he blurted out the location of the girl.  
  
The next day found Solo and Kuryakin in a briefing with Alexander Waverly.  The head of UNCLE Northwest and beyond found their use of intimidation a plausible and, apparently effective method of extracting information.  Scaring the daylights out of someone as despicable as Nigel Lawson was an acceptable means of gaining the end result: A Thrush villain was incarcerated and an innocent life saved.  
  
Princess Ariana had been returned to her father’s palace, gaining the loyalty and support of the small nation.  It was another gamble that had turned the tables in UNCLE’s favor.  
  
“Gentlemen, I suspect you are somewhat fatigued after your exploits chasing down Lawson and then the girl.  I believe I can spare you for the next forty-eight hours, but don’t wander too far, we never know for certain…”  He didn’t need to finish the sentence.  The two men he valued more than any of the others stood, nodding and acknowledging the gift of two days off as they departed the old man’s office.  
  
Napoleon stopped in midstride, a look of some amusement on his face.  Illya, suddenly aware of walking alone stopped and turned back towards his partner.  
  
“What is it now, Napoleon?”  The blond was mildly annoyed, he hadn’t had breakfast and his stomach was complaining of being empty.  
“I was just wondering if you would have taken that shot.  How would you have avoided hitting me?”  He hadn’t wanted to think about it, but surely his clever Russian friend had a plan of some sort.  
  
“I regret to have to tell you, Napoleon, that it would have been another Waterloo.  Although I realize you were referring to the Crimean War, what with the Tennyson comment and all.”  
  
A shudder went through the American as he remembered the words of the poem Illya had cited.  
  
“Uh, Illya… That’s not the one I was thinking of.  I had a different line in mind, considering the situation we were in.’ Napoleon had a thoughtful look on his face as he recited the brief line…  
  
“He makes no friends who never made a foe.”  
  
The Russian colored slightly from the twinge of embarrassment he felt at having missed it.  He had assumed…  
  
“Oh.  Oh, that might have ended badly.  I … hmmmm…”  
  
Neither man were unaware of what might have happened had Illya acted on the erroneous assumption.  
  
“Next time, please just quote the line to me rather than assuming that I will be able to read your mind.  Honestly Napoleon…”  
  
“You know, IK, not  _everything_ is about the Russians.”  
  
Kuryakin didn’t exactly bristle at the remark, but he did have a comeback or two.  He decided to let them lie, because after all, he had said a true thing when he told Lawson that Napoleon was his best friend.  No wonder he had been reminded of that line.  Illya smiled mischievously.  
  
“My good blade carves the casques of men                                
My tough lance thrusteth sure                                                   
My strength is as the strength of ten                                    
Because my heart is pure.”  
  
Now it was Napoleon smiling.  “Okay, tovarisch, call it even.  I know you weren’t going to let Lawson finish me off.”  
  
He was right, of course.  Come Hell or high water, there would always be another way out for these men from UNCLE.


End file.
